Counterplay
by Tori Angeli
Summary: Separated from his family by an old friend and taken in by an old enemy, an estranged Michelangelo becomes the only thing that can save his family in a game where no one is who they claim to be.
1. Chapter 1

Japan had looked more beautiful

Splinter watched the sun set across the Shinano-Gawa and felt the irony of the melancholy settling over him. This was the most a sewer-dwelling hideaway could dream of —open air, sunset in his homeland, his four wonderful sons not fighting, not arguing, but wrestling and laughing and barking sharp cries of victory. His friend the Ancient One stood nearby, watching the horse-play with a degree of solemnity. This was as close as they'd ever come to a family reunion, a grandfather with his grandson and great-grandsons.

The old rat sighed a little, supposing Japan would never be the same to him without his master, the missing link in that family. It had to become something different now, but no less beautiful—gold and red in sunset rather than silver and green in morning. His sons brought him greater joy in the autumn of his life than he had ever imagined possible without his unknowing sensei. There had been days when Hamato Yoshi had not even crossed Splinter's mind. But coming back to his homeland brought back a keen sense of loss that he could not dismiss.

His sons were not ignorant of the way this place had affected him. Leonardo in particular had been reluctant to take this outingwithhis master in such a mood, and had offered to stay at the Ancient One's house with him to meditate. Michelangelo, whose concern for his master had not quite overcome his excitement at the prospect of this outing, had pressed him into coming. The last thing Splinter wanted was to be alone, so he had come along for this tour of the mountains with his sons and the Shishou.

Now they were by the steep banks of the river, some yards from a cliff over the water that Splinter had to continually warn his sons about**.** His ears flattened against his head in anxiety as Raphael and Michelangelo sparred within mere feet of the cliff's edge. His fingertips dug into his knees as he restrained himself from telling them to stop. They were trained ninja. They did not need their father to worry needlessly over them.

Perhaps sensing the old rat's solemnity, the Ancient One broke from his watchful stance and sank down to sit by Splinter, who moved aside to allow for the Shishou's size and lack of concern for personal space. "You boys be kehful, hai?" he broadcasted nasally, casting Splinter a wide, puffy grin. "Yoh sons make you proud foh good reason, Splintah-san," he said casually.

Splinter recognized the "ulterior motive tone," which the Ancient One adopted when he used a casual statement to lead to something deeper. "They do bring me great joy, Ancient One," he replied calmly. He didn't like being patronized—not even by the Ancient One, who seemed to assume he knew Splinter's sons better than he did simply because he was older.

The Ancient One squinted as though in genuine thought. "Leonahdo, now," he said, tapping a finger against the air, "he some ninja. He do good foh one his age. But you no tell him dat, or he believe it."

This was precisely the sort of thing Splinter tried to avoid with the Ancient One. "Yes," he gave him. "Leonardo takes great pride in his abilities. When he doubts himself, he doubts his entire being, because his pride makes up so much of himself."

"If yoh speak of pride," the Ancient One broke in, "Donatello has much pride. Too much. Knows his own genius."

"Donatello takes pride in himself," Splinter admitted, restraining his irritation, "but pride is not his main concern. I cannot teach him enough, Shishou-sama. Always, he desires to learn more, to know more."

"Which is a sort of greed, Splintah-san," murmured the Shishou sadly, shaking his head.

"Which is an admirable trait, Shishou-sama, if you know him," the rat said patiently.

"One so young must be content with the pace his sensei has chosen for him," stated the Ancient One. "It is the sensei who teaches, not his student."

Splinter frowned. "What did you wish to speak of, Ancient One?" he asked directly, seeing no point in this dance. The Ancient One wanted something, was leading up to something, and pretending otherwise was only a waste of time and patience.

"So young and impatient, Splintah-san," the Ancient One said with some amusement. "I wish to speak to you of yoh son Michelangelo."

"Why, Shishou-sama?" Splinter questioned. His eyes landed on his youngest son, who was wrestling Donatello to the ground. "Because he is reckless? Because he spends far too much time on video games and comic books and too little time on his training? Because he lacks faith in himself and therefore accepts his own mistakes too easily? I know these things, Ancient One. I have memorized his weaknesses and cannot rid him of them overnight, or upon request," he stated with a note of bitterness. "Michelangelo has the potential to be a great ninja, a truly great warrior, and his spirit is indomitable. Surely if you have known him long enough to know his flaws, you can see that."

The Shishou was silent, staring at Michelangelo idly, and Splinter could see the cogs of his mind working behind his tiny black eyes. "Do not tell me what my sons have yet to achieve, Ancient One," the rat said firmly, but without the bitterness he had not managed to restrain before. "None of them are a hopeless cause, even if some have far to go." Perhaps the right words would stop those cogs. Splinter did not trust those cogs.

Instead of stopping, the cogs clicked into place. "Sometimes," the Ancient One said softly, "to teach da liddle bird to fly, you have to trow him off cliff." He did not look away from Michelangelo.

Splinter watched the Shishou carefully, then briefly glanced away, nodding softly. When he glanced back, the Ancient One's lips were moving slightly, a look of intense concentration forming on his face. Frowning in suspicion, Splinter glanced toward his sons. Michelangelo was close to the cliff's edge—too close. He was playfully fending off Raphael and laughing uproariously, his feet stamping indentations into the soft earth below. But the earth on which the old rat sat was not soft enough to bend so. His frown deepened, this time in alarm. The Ancient One's lips moved still, murmuring softly in a mystic tongue.

"Ancient One!" hissed Splinter, but the old Shishou did not stop or even slow. The rat rocketed to his feet. Michelangelo's foot sank deeply into the ground, then began to slide backward, toward the edge of the cliff. "Michelangelo!" Splinter called in alarm, watching in growing horror as he realized what the Ancient One was doing.

Michelangelo had only begun to react to his father's call when the earth at the cliff's edge crumbled. Raphael jerked forward and snatched for his brother. Donatello and Leonardo had not even seen yet. Splinter was already racing toward his son. "Michelangelo!"

There was the horrible sound of earth tearing from earth, and just as Raphael's fingertips brushed his brother's, Michelangelo dropped out of sight, a cry of alarm lingering in the air where he had been. The rat arrived at the cliff's edge breathlessly and stared thirty feet down the edge of the cliff to the waters below.

The Ancient One was now silent.

There was no sign of Michelangelo.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Notes: I am so sorry this took so long, but my beta's life suddenly became very complicated, and I didn't want to post this without her feedback. It's a good thing I didn't, too. Also, I forgot to mention in the last author's notes that the wonderful Donny's Boy came up with the title for this story. All now know of my lack of creativity, or at least, my hang-up when it comes to titles. My incredible beta is Winnychan. It's all her fault.

* * *

One second, Mike was on solid ground; the next, in the air. He was halfway down the cliff before he realized he was falling, and almost in the water before he realized he was screaming. He hoped to god he was falling feet first, because there was no sense of awareness of himself, just the air cutting past him and the shrinking picture of one of his brothers at the top of the cliff.

CRACK.

He landed on the concrete water in a sitting position, the bruising pain of the impact forcing a harsh gasp from him before the icy fingers of the water lancing over him dragged him down. Now there was nothing but black and the hideous shock of crippling cold. He barely had time to register either before another explosion of pain crashed through his entire right side—the current had picked him up and smashed him against a rock. He barely thought to scrabble for a hold on it before he was yanked away and jerked further downward, fingers grabbing futilely. Limbs thrashed in the liquid void—he had to find up, had to find air, his lungs were already starting to burn, and the image of his family at the top of the cliff was still behind his eyelids, still fading into the void. Weren't they going to save him? Never mind! The need to find up and air was too urgent. Which way was up?

Suddenly his right shoulder dug into the mud at the bottom of the river, and he remained there, unmoving. His throat was knotted, his lungs on fire, he had to find air, but now he at least knew which way up was. He kicked off from the bottom but was seized again, snapped forward, bruised by the grip of the river, feeling his own neck twist unnaturally and pop, his limbs fighting to tear from their sockets. His chest ached and heaved airlessly, the fire shooting into his head, fire and water, and his mouth opened to release just a little of the precious oxygen that was supposed to keep him buoyant, supposed to keep him alive. The water twisted him sharply again, and suddenly there was water in his throat, water up his nose, lancing like a pike of dry ice into his forehead, into his brain, the most agonizing thing he'd ever felt in his life, and the ensuing instinctive gasp brought the water further into his lungs, a hard lump of cold lead set painfully in his chest. His efforts redoubled, but his struggling was half as strong as before, starved fingers weakly swishing through the water to find air, to find up, to find anything but this black void and this haze of pain and panic. Soon the void faded, and there was nothing but the agony, tearing his limbs from his body like the current had, cutting through his chest like a dull butcher knife, like the end of his life.

_I'm dying._

_Oh god, I'm dying!_

There was no time for his life to flash before his eyes, no light in a tunnel, nothing but the numbing cold and the agony and the crushing knowledge that this was going to shock and kill his family as thoroughly as him. He thrashed harder than ever, flying into a new flurry of panic, but he could no longer even tell if the spinning sensation he had was from the water or his own head. The pain in his chest spiked, fluttered, his thrashing weakened, the fire cooled, he could hear his struggling heart above the roar of the water, then he could no longer hear even the water. There was his own lifebeat, his own throbbing veins, his paralyzed lungs, and trapped in slow motion, the feeling of being ripped in half began to fade, and the void returned, wrapped around him like a blanket, warm and hazy and deceptively comforting. The pain died down to an ember, and he suddenly felt sleepy, almost comfortable.

_Wait—that's bad,_ he thought drowsily before his eyes shut and his mind was absorbed into the void.

* * *

_You have to trow him off cliff._

Splinter stared at his old friend, and the world faded into slow motion. His eyes replayed his youngest son's fall again and again, juxtaposing it over the tiny smile on the face of the Ancient one, who had not moved from his spot on the ground. Around him, he could hear but not comprehend the voices of his children.

"Mikey!"

"Raph, no!"

"Let me go! Mikey!"

"You'll just kill yourself! We have to head upstream and see if we can find him!"

The old rat couldn't feel his fingers, but twitched them consciously, considering throwing himself at that man and throttling the smile from his face. _This was not your choice!_ his heart cried in despair. _He is not your son! What have you done? _Those cogs were turning again behind the eyes of the Shishou, as though they were contemplating what further damage could be done. Splinter's blood heated, then began to boil, burning mercilessly in his abdomen. That smile continued to beam at him, puffing its face into rolls of fat, deep wrinkled surrounding the mouth mocking him with superiority.

_Sometimes to teach da liddle bird to fly, you have to trow him off cliff._

_Do you think this is funny and ironic, or did you somehow believe you were warning me?_

"Master Splinter?"

His name was being spoken. His sons needed him.

"Master Splinter?"

The rat bared his teeth. "Yes?"

"We have to head upstream."

The wrinkles in that smiling fat face deepened. "I tink," said the Ancient One, "dat you should stay here." He folded his hands on his lap, smiling happily.

The world went white. Splinter blinked. White. Everywhere. He was rooted to the same spot, but the Ancient One had disappeared, and on the ground around him, everything was white. No, covered in white. _Snow_. He had just enough time to process this before the chill touched him, and he drew back in surprise, bumping into one of his sons.

"Whoa," whispered the son behind him—Donatello. "What the...?"

The snow was everywhere, but it was not falling from the sky overhead. Splinter's fur and robe were untouched by it. In fact, the surface of it crunched underfoot; it had been there a day at least, perhaps longer. Splinter whirled around, taking in his surroundings. Leonardo and Raphael were behind Donatello, frozen in surprise. Behind them was the same cliff Michelangelo had fallen from, only there were no signs of the broken earth that had dropped him. The air felt different, smelled different, and it wasn't just the snow. Across the Shinano-gawa were the same mountains as before, but there were no houses speckling the mountainside, only a single dark speck low on the mountain nearest them across the river's frozen expanse. Smoke hovered over it, not heavy enough for the entire structure to be burning. Someone lived there. Many lived there. The old rat squinted. It looked like drawings he'd seen of fortresses in Edo Japan, only smaller and poorer, the sort built from sheer necessity. He began to shiver. _Two betrayals in one day, my friend? You are quite busy._

Donatello was also looking up the mountain, eyes wide with astonishment. "Where are we?"

"Not where," Splinter corrected him gently. "When."

* * *

His own mortality wasn't something Michelangelo thought of often. When he opened his eyes, it was the first thing on his mind. _Am I dead?_ At least, he felt like he should be dead. The blurred world around him lent itself no shape, just hazy swirls and splotches of unidentifiable colors. He couldn't remember coming here. The last clear memory he had was of wrestling with Raph by the river—he must have fallen in or something. His body took a breath, inflating and expanding and lifting him slightly off the ground as his rib cage pushed against the damp soil—he was lying on his side, he noted. The breath was captured by a fit of wet coughing, his lungs slurping in and expelling air. Fingers dug into his shoulders, hands jerking him painfully upright and bending him over. Water spattered from his mouth, squeezed from his lungs like from water balloons. His head served as further proof that he was alive, pounding happily with each heartbeat until Mike thought he would be sick. His face was sore, his right side hurt like crazy, and his limbs were as unsteady as gelatin. Between coughs, he heard the spark of a female voice. More than one pair of hands was on him now, forcing him to his feet. At last, he could breathe properly, and his first gasp nearly sent him reeling back into blackness. Static burst in front of his eyes. His knees nearly gave way. A hand with short fingernails that still dug painfully into his skin seized his jaw and forced his chin up. The static cleared to show a blunt-featured Japanese woman, her icy almond-shaped eyes glaring—no, penetrating him, all the hatred in the world behind them.

She said something in Japanese.

"Wha?" he gasped.

She hit him across the face with her closed fist, delivering more power than he ever thought possible from a woman shorter than himself. The placement of the blow was precise. If Mike had been human, his jaw might have been broken. He saw more sparks. She repeated herself. This time, he recognized one of the words—his own name, with perfect English pronunciation. This woman knew English. She just preferred not to speak it. More likely, she preferred not to speak it with him. The rest of what she was saying clicked into place.

"Are you Michelangelo?"

"No," he slurred automatically. First Rule of Being Mike: Whatever you did, whenever possible, let someone else take the heat.

She struck him again. "You are Michelangelo," she said hotly in her native tongue, her wide, thick mouth baring in a snarl. The rest arranged itself in his head as his conversations in Japanese with his father recalled his meager skills in the language. "The orange one. Mistress Karai—" something.

"Karai?"

_Oh shit. The Foot. _Alarm snapped Mike's eyes into focus._ Of course it's the Foot! It's always the Foot!_

The woman was flanked by two longer, leaner ninja—men, unsurprisingly, neither older than twenty-five. She must have been in her mid to late thirties herself, still in her prime, with thick legs and arms, a broad heart-shaped face, and sleek black hair cropped at the level of her jaw, restrained by a broad grey headband. Her eyes were a little too close-set, her nose so small and flat that it nearly disappeared against her face. She was like a cast-iron cannonball, or a hand grenade on the verge of eruption.

She spoke again, but her dialect was so different from Splinter's that he didn't have the slightest clue what she was saying. Very quickly, he learned that she hadn't spoken to him, but to the ninja holding him. One struck him until he saw stars, then darkness.

* * *

He woke from involuntary unconsciousness for the second time that day—if it was the same day—to a glaring white light radiating from a fixture above his head. He didn't need to move to feel the straps binding his arms and legs, and for one horrible instant, his mind raced back to his captivity in Bishop's laboratory. _Oh god, not Bishop again_. But his senses returned to him, he felt the curvature of his own body, molding not to a flat table, but a chair, like the ones in dentists' offices on television. Either way, being strapped down under a bright light had never yielded pleasant results for him or anyone else he knew who wasn't an evil megalomaniac. It wasn't a good thing to see in movies, either. But he knew there was a reason for the light. Something about its constancy, the bonds and the light driving you mad like the Chinese water torture. Anyway, these chairs were never good. Or in any way comfortable.

The straps that held him down were something akin to leather but felt more like rawhide against his wrists and ankles. They fastened with buckles, which was about as moronic a thing as Michelangelo could think of. Buckles! Buckles were nothing. He strained one wrist, frowning at the odd amount of effort it took, until he could take hold of the end of one strap and wriggle it free of the buckle. Weak he may have been, but this was the easiest thing in the universe. No straps-and-buckles system could hold down a ninja turtle, least of all the Turtle Titan, Battle Nexus Champion and Supreme Fighter of the Multiverse! He gave a quiet, breathy cackle as one wrist came loose.

Now with one hand free, he undid the buckles on his ankles and his other wrist, pausing to puzzle over the cotton ball taped to the inside of his elbow. Whatever. He tore the bit of fluff off and continued his work. This was too easy. He could almost see the narration in a box over his head like he was in a comic book, and hear dramatic background music as he slinked to the door and pushed it open. _The Turtle Titan holds his breath as the door creaks open, wondering if his own death waits for him on the other side! He is prepared for the strongest of enemy hordes, the greatest of fighters, for he is the greatest of them all!_

The hallway—almost disappointingly—was empty. It was the same sort of tiled deal as a hospital, austere and functional and pebbled with doorways the same color as the taupe walls. There were no windows or exit signs. Maybe people were supposed to know their way around. Or was he in the Inner Foot Sanctum at all? Had they sold him to some shady scientist? Was that why it was so easy to escape?

_Eep._

He crept into the hallway, switching to a slow, sweeping walk Master Splinter had taught them once for silent movement. In the fluorescent lighting of the hallway, he was sure it would have looked really silly to anyone passing through, but since no one saw him anyway, silence was the goal.

A door opened. A gaggle of black-clad ninja filed out, talking amongst themselves like students just released from class. One spotted him and gave a cry. So much for silence. Mike turned on his heel and ran. There were sounds of pursuit behind him, and shouts of warning. The impact of his feet with the cold tile vibrated through his bones. Maybe he was just shaking. His mouth went dry as another door ahead opened, releasing two more ninja.

Definitely not the lab of a shady scientist. Unless the scientist had found a way to mass-produce ninja. That was a thought he'd have to store away for later.

He vaulted over the heads of the two ninja, tucking his legs as close to his body as he could. Master Splinter had always complimented him on his form during ducks, flips, and leaps. Only this time, he was one ninja among many, and these ninja could leap, too. Mike felt his foot seized, and the air was knocked completely out of him when he was flung hard to the floor. Blinding pain exploded through his spine and flared out to his extremities, and he briefly wondered if the scutes had been broken off from the force of the impact.

"Kagitte!" shouted a woman's voice. He recognized the word from hearing Splinter use it in the dojo when encouraging someone to hold onto a captive. He flipped to his feet just as two assailants crashed into him and locked his arms in a death grip, their fingers digging hard into his muscles. A fist slammed into his chin from below in an uppercut, setting stars off in front of his eyes. The blurry shape of the short woman from earlier came into focus. She was frowning darkly. Several crashing heartbeats passed, and her frown deepened into a snarl. She spat a few words out and tapped the ball of her thumb with one finger. "Kagitte! Hibi wo kirisaite!"

Mike could translate most of that. One word seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. For one horrible, dizzying instant, he feared the worst; oddly, a song in Japanese Splinter had taught them to learn various body parts played in his head, singing that word. _Ude, te, hibi, me, hibi, hibi, me, me, arm, hand, fingers, eyes, fingers, fingers, eyes, eyes..._

There was no distinction in Japanese between fingers and thumbs, so she'd pointed to her thumb for a reason. She'd been saying, "Hold him! Cut off his thumbs!"

_Oh shit._

The woman gazed at him piercingly and spoke in English. "He will live as the animal he is."


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Forgive the long delay. I had problems pop up, among other things a computer crash, and...yes, a lot of things. The next chapter will not take this long.

* * *

His _thumbs?_ She was going to cut off his _thumbs_? Flashes of everything Mike did with his thumbs fluttered through his head like a too-fast slide show, images of holding pencils and paint brushes and operating game controllers and turning pages and shuffling cards and, oh man, holding his nunchucks. A cry of dismay was torn from his lungs as the two ninja holding him wrestled him to the floor and two more flattened his hands against the cold tile. _Not my thumbs!_ He yanked his hands away, smacking one of the ninja behind him, only to have one snatched again, and cold steel placed against the ball of his thumb. He struck out with his other fist. The blow was caught and his arm painfully twisted and pinned behind him. His heart blocked his throat. Cold blood pounded in his ears. The world shrank to that bit of steel and flesh as the blade pressed into his skin.

"Wakako!"

The steel stopped just short of opening his flesh. There was a flurry of footsteps, then a series of mutterings. Mike risked a glance toward the stocky woman. She was now talking with a taller, older man with salt-and-pepper hair. That was all Mike could see of him from the back of his head, but when the man turned around and gazed at him with far-set hawk-like eyes, Mike could feel himself shrinking. The man was _tall_, with compact muscles, a pointed, prominent nose, and a long, heart-shaped face. He might have been a hawk, frowning down at him and contemplating him as prey, aloof and even regal, the powerful line of his shoulders at ease, comfortable and almost casual in his authority. Even the fierce little woman watched him with grudging respect.

The man turned back to the woman and murmured a few words that caused her to snarl. She spat a few sentences at him and waved in Mike's general direction. The blade against his right thumb disappeared, leaving a small white line on his skin. Every muscle in his body went limp, a powerful crash of relief making his head spin. The ninja holding him jerked him to his feet. He nearly collapsed on his jelly-legs, but the ninja snarled and pulled him upright, propping him up as he shivered. The woman turned on her heel and walked away briskly, while the older man watched Mike again, his frown faded but not altogether gone. It was the same contemplative frown Don got just before he took something apart. There came a chilling realization that this man wasn't a rescuer, just a different sort of captor from the woman. Mike wet his suddenly dry lips.

Then the man spoke slowly in heavily-accented English. "My name is Ito Takeshi." His voice was a dry but resonant bass. "Do you know who you are?"

That was a weird question. Mike opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by a gesture from Takeshi.

"Come." Takeshi breezed past him suddenly, and the ninja holding Mike forced him down the hall after the old man. Mike's stomach growled inappropriately, and he nearly snickered in sudden giddiness. _Weird thing to hear while life is grinding your butt into hamburger._ The image from that thought did make him snicker. Fortunately, the laughter went unnoticed. It stopped suddenly when a ninja seized his bandanna and twisted it around to cover his eyes, blindfolding him.

They led him stumbling up a staircase. He tried counting steps, but repeated a number somewhere, and after trying to go back and correct himself, he gave up. He'd have to guess how many stories up he was. The stairs came to an end, and there was another long hallway, then they doubled back for more stairs. _They're trying to confuse me. And succeeding. And does this place, like, not have an elevator?_ Of course, an elevator would make too much sense. Maybe one reason the Foot headquarters were always impenetrable was just because people got tired of walking up the stairs. Seemed like they'd have a hard time keeping custodians. Did the Foot have custodians? Or did they get their ninja trainees to do it all? He could picture little black-clad ninja with brooms and mops and toilet brushes and floor polishers, working their shriveled hearts out under the supervision of some ninja taskmaster with a Nazi cap and a bullwhip. He snickered again.

Another hallway, another u-turn, and through a doorway, and he perceived the acoustics of a smaller, carpeted room. One more doorway, and his bandanna was torn from his eyes. He blinked at the interior of a sizable walk-in linen closet with white wire shelving and...nothing else. Well, besides an in-set headache-inducing fluorescent light on the ceiling.

The ninja holding him shoved him inside, and he spun quickly as they departed, their job done. Takeshi remained just past the doorway, watching him coolly. Now he was more cat than hawk, not hungry, but making note of a fine place to hunt. "Dere many who would kill you on sight, Micherangero. _Chunin_ Kikuta Wakako is one of dem. I am also chunin. I protect you here." A thread of anger like flash-frozen flame lashed itself into his voice. "It is great mercy. You monsters kill my son in America." Takeshi closed the door between them, and there was the snick of a padlock from outside.

_What?_

* * *

Cold is agonizing. Cold hurts the bones and the marrow, stiffens the joints and punishes sinews. Cold chills the blood and saliva and turns air into crystal. The spine locks, the toes and fingers go numb, and all the water in the body turns to ice.

Don was so cold.

He glanced behind habitually, half-expecting to see his youngest brother dashing up the steep slope behind them. There was that cliff, covered in snow, much smaller than it had been now that it was on the other side of the frozen river. The chill was bitter, but even worse was the idea that Mike may have been transported with them, and was now encased in the river's ice. When they had slid across, he hadn't been able to help straining his eyes to see through the ice. If he'd seen something, he hadn't been able to tell if it was Michelangelo. Besides, wouldn't Master Splinter have been able to sense something like that? Unless his father was nowhere near as adept as Don was led to believe. It was better anyway to think that Mike was back in their own time, free of snow and ice.

The easiest part so far had been the crossing. With the river frozen solid, sliding across it had been quick. The worst part was climbing up the mountainside. That fort was much closer than before, but they never seemed to reach it. They had to struggle quickly, before frostbite set in. Don had to concentrate on climbing and keeping his arms around a shivering Splinter, who was wedged between him and an edgy Raphael. Leo ran ahead some twenty feet, scouting out the quickest paths. The oldest brother had the dexterity of a mountain goat. No matter where he put his feet, he was balanced perfectly while the rest of his family shivered behind him. Raphael was slower, pausing constantly to look back with a harsh murmur, apparently even more anxious about Mike than Don, and looking on the verge of storming back to hack through the ice himself. Splinter periodically caught his eye and gave him a gentle shake of his head. He must have known something they didn't.

Don was concerned for Leo's health as he trudged through the snow above them, far from the warmth of the group huddle. The oldest brother was grinding his teeth and hugging himself tightly, moving quickly to keep his blood pumping. Don shivered and curled against Splinter's warmth. He had to keep from thinking too hard about Mike. What insane coincidence had taken their brother from them just before they were randomly transported into an unknown winter? Don didn't like coincidences. There had to be a reason for this, or it meant nothing. Something from outside had influenced this, obviously. But he'd decided not to think about this.

Leo stopped up ahead, apparently watching the fort, then looked over his shoulder at them. "I have a hunch," he called back. He started forward again, half-running now. Don gritted his chattering teeth and kept pace, half-dragging Raph and Splinter before they too broke into a jog, fighting the bitter cold uphill.

Despite the quicker pace, the fort only seemed to approach more slowly. The frigid air did little to nourish Don's straining lungs, and gasping it in cooled his body down as quickly as the exercise was warming it. He closed his mouth and tried to breathe deeply through his nose. It took effort, but the air was warmer when it hit his throat and billowed into his lungs.

The closer they came to the fort, the more Don believed it to be instead a small village with a hastily-built wooden wall around it. The gate looked like it was meant to withstand assault but probably could not do so. Helmeted heads and spear-tips showed over the top of the fragile wall; there must have been a platform built around the inside, allowing guards to stand near the top and look out. Smoke from about a dozen chimneys stippled the air.

Oh, a fire would be so nice, yes please. The cold was blinding. They had only been walking for about twenty minutes, but Don was sure he'd never be warm again.

When they arrived at the wall, Leo unexpectedly called up a greeting in Japanese. Splinter hissed for silence, pressing to the shadows, but Leo remained in the open, looking up. Ohhh, that hunch of his had better be a good one. It had better be more than a hunch.

There was movement overhead, then two guards appeared at the wall and looked downward, frowning. They wore the clothing and armor of medieval samurai, but that was the least astonishing thing about them. Don's mouth opened slowly, and he leaned toward Raph to whisper, "Do you see what I see?"

Raph's eyes were enormous. "If you see Garfield an' Odie, then yeah."

The taller samurai was a beagle. A beefy, humanoid beagle. The other was most decidedly an orange tabby, white-striped face frowning down at them in disapproval. The beagle called down in a deep voice. "From what province do you hail?"

Leo glanced sharply at his brothers. Raphael gave a clueless shrug, and Don shook his head, having no idea what to say. Splinter whispered something to Leo, who set his lips. "We are from the western countryside, and we are very cold. Can we come inside?"

"They lie," hissed the cat samurai. "They are ninja. See their weapons?"

"If they were ninja," the dog replied, "we would not know it. But they do lie. The West has been taken already. Have them all slain but the rat. We will question him."

Splinter hissed. Leo's face remained unchanged, and he stepped forward boldly. "Do you know a ronin named Miyamoto Usagi?"

Don sincerely hoped Leo wasn't taking a shot in the dark only to learn these samurai were enemies of Usagi or disdainful of ronin in general, or that they weren't on Second Earth at all. His fingers twitched nervously. He could take on quite a few enemies on his own, but none of them had any idea how many samurai were in this fort, and if they could take them all at once. Leo's hunch had better be a good one.

The dog frowned deeply, and for an instant, Don lost hope. "How do you know Usagi-teicho?"

The use of the honorific eased Don's fears, and he could breathe again. Leo raised his chin. "I am his friend. Is he there?"

"He is here, but how can I trust you?"

"Bring him to the wall. If he does not know me, you are free to slay us."

That froze Don's blood deeper than the cold. What if they had been transported to a time before Usagi knew them? Leo was taking quite a few gambles, but it may be their only chance of avoiding a fight. He wished he could reach for his bo staff without rousing suspicions. They had called him Usagi-captain. Maybe this was before Usagi was a ronin, and therefore, before Usagi knew them.

The dog gave a nod to the cat, who bowed and disappeared. Minutes ticked by. Snow appeared like stars in the air around them, falling softly and silently. The only sounds were those of breathing and his own teeth chattering. From above, the dog watched them closely, hand tightening around his spear. Don huddled against Splinter, whose small frame bowed under the harsh cold. _Please, please hurry._

"Leonardo-san?"

Choirs of angels sang in Donatello's brain when a lean rabbit with a topknot appeared at the wall. He wore a heavy cloak against the cold, but his nose was red from the chill. Leo's face broke into a grin. "Usagi-san! It is good to see you!"

Usagi looked more worried than overjoyed. "Let them in immediately," he ordered the dog. "Akira-san, have someone fetch them tea, blankets, and clothing. And find Tomoe Ame and tell her to come to me."

The dog barked out an order, and the rickety wooden gates were pushed open from the inside. Don and Raph half-carried Splinter through them. Inside, Usagi was already down from the wall and waiting. He immediately stripped off his heavy cloak and placed it around Splinter's shoulders. The old rat gave a shallow but grateful bow—all he could manage, Don was fairly certain, considering he himself was growing stiff and numb.

The ronin bowed back deeply. "I fear you have some at a bad time, Splinter-sensei. I will see that you are made warm and sent back to your world as soon as possible."

Don glanced at Splinter, who made no motions to explain that they'd already tried that, just after they'd gotten here, and failed, Splinter's shivering sketch in the snow producing no glow, no portal to the Battle Nexus. He had credited it to his hands and voice shivering in the cold and suggested that they find a place to warm up. "Thank you," whispered the rat. "Please see to my sons. I am warmer than they, and respect for me has caused them to neglect themselves, I am afraid."

Usagi nodded. "Jotaro, take them to our house. I will be there shortly."

This was directed, to Don's surprise, at a nearby bundle of clothing topped with a fur cap. Two white hands emerged from the bundle and removed the cap, revealing two long ears, a pair of dark eyes, and the pink nose of a rabbit-child of eleven or twelve years. Don blinked. The boy bowed. "Come with me," he said, eyes wide with fascination and curiosity. No longer able to feel his feet, Don followed.

* * *

Raphael had at least three hundred blankets piled on him. He was spending more time warming his hands with his cup of tea than actually drinking from it, but that was fine. Jotaro had brought them rice balls and miso soup with soba, and only Splinter was still picking at his with his chopsticks, drawing up the noodles and slurping them into his mouth while watching the little rabbit with a discerning gaze. The boy had also dug up four kimono and pairs of boots to dress the turtles and replace Splinter's sodden robe. A docile drowsiness seemed to have overtaken Don, who reclined on the floor with his eyes half-closed, cuddled in layers of blankets over his new grey kimono. Their sensei was in dark blue and Leo in crimson, cradling his cup of tea and sipping it reverently. Raph had been fine with taking the black kimono. He liked black. If he wore clothes on a regular basis, most of them would probably be black.

Despite the calm of his brothers and father, Raphael couldn't relax. An hour ago, he had felt he'd never be warm again, and that sentiment was proving to be false already. But just down the mountainside was a river his younger brother had toppled into. Had Mike stayed on Third Earth, or had he suddenly found himself frozen solid in a river of ice?

Jotaro had not shut up since their arrival. "Uncle Usagi talks about you all the time. He tells stories about how Leonardo-san saved Lord Noriyuki and Tomoe Ame, and how Michelangelo-san became the Battle Nexus Champion like his sensei and his sensei's sensei. You must be from an amazing _ryu_! Can I see your weapons?"

Leo humored him by drawing one of his ninjaken and passing the handle to the boy, who took it respectfully with both hands. "I didn't know Usagi has siblings," he commented.

Jotaro shook his head. "He's not my real uncle. He's a friend of my parents. I traveled with him for a month once while I was studying with Katsuichi-sensei, who also trained Uncle Usagi. We had all kinds of things happen! I got captured by this giant moth," he said proudly, grinning broadly, "and then I saved a bunch of other kids."

"You'll have to tell me the story sometime," Leo said patiently, "but right now, I think my family and I would like to sleep."

Jotaro continued like Leo hadn't spoken. "Anyway, my sensei died, so Uncle Usagi came and got me to take me back to my parents, and we got stuck here. You're Leonardo-san, right? He said you wore a blue mask. Oh—you might not want to let anyone know you're a ninja, even if you're friends with Uncle Usagi. There aren't many ninja left anymore, and the ones that are are usually killed when they're found out. One of Uncle Usagi's good friends was a ninja, and she got killed a while ago." The boy's face went solemn as he spoke of the death. "She gave me a shuriken once. I still have it."

Leo was frowning. "What happened to the ninja?"

"I don't know. Some kind of rivalry, where they kept trying to sabotage each other? That's what some people say, anyway. The Neko clan died out, and there are a few left from the Komori clan, unfortunately. The rest are all scattered since the war started."

Splinter's ears perked up. "War?"

The door opened, and Usagi stepped in wearily, trailed by a female cat samurai with long, thick hair; Raph figured she was the Tomoe Ame that had been mentioned. Her eyes sparked with familiarity when they landed on Leo, and she bowed in greeting. "Leonardo-san," she murmured, "it is good to see you again."

"Lady Tomoe," Leo acknowledged with a nod. "It is an honor."

"Has Jotaro been talking your ears off?" Usagi asked, fondly tousling the boy's ears.

"He's been fine," Leo insisted, smiling at the kid, who grinned back. "We've had a good conversation."

"What is this war of which he speaks?" Splinter asked abruptly, eyes intense.

"Not a war," Tomoe said harshly. "The end of the world."

* * *

Michelangelo had endured a lot in his life. His childhood was heavy with memories of starvation and cold, wet winters with no solace but the warmth of a family huddle. He had been wounded in battle or stupidity more often than he wanted to remember, captured by aliens, prodded by scientists, tied up and given to thousands of rats as kibble, had his mind and spirit attacked by evil mystics, and drank sour milk.

But this was torture.

He could have cried for the lack of anything to divert him. He would have sold his spleen for his Game Guy, a jump rope, some bubble wrap, anything at all. The only thing in the closet was closet stuff. Not even cleaning supplies or anything, just shelves and walls. And a ceiling. That fluorescent light was killing him, and so was his stomach, come to think of it. How long since he had eaten? _No, don't think about it. Ignore the stomach. Ignooooore. It is evil and therefore unworthy of your attention. So is everything else. Clear your mind. You are not in an enemy base in unfamiliar territory. You are not starving to death. You are not totally alone and on your own, because the others are looking for you, and they'll get you out of this. That's always happened before. We're brothers. We're never alone._

Last time he had felt this cold, his family had been there to warm him.

_Never alone_.

He shuddered.

_I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts. Here they are standing in a row. Big ones, small ones, some as big as your head._

"Give 'em a twist, a flick o' the wrist, that's what the showman said!" muttered Mikey, forcing some perkiness into the song. Said forced perkiness did bring out a little of the cheer he was accustomed to. Which was nice. He wished he could do the same thing for escape plans.

Noise. Mike leapt to his feet at the sound of keys clinking together. There was the serrated rumble of a key sliding into a lock, a click, the clanking of a sliding chain. Absolutely nothing in the room could be used as a weapon, but that didn't matter. Ninja were their own weapons. Or...hope exploded through Mike. Could this be rescue? Please let it be rescue. Let that door open to the tender face of Master Splinter, Leo, Don, April, Angel, Casey, Mortu, Klunk, even Raph. Please, please, please...

Or course it was Takeshi who opened the door, face as disturbingly deadpan as ever, and Mike's heart fell. Not that he'd had his heart set on rescue, oh no. It would have been nice, though. Oh well. Maybe later. Where were the others, anyway? They'd seen him fall, right? Hadn't they followed?

Takeshi said something in Japanese, then turned and walked away, leaving the door open. The strangest feeling came over Mike, and he wondered if he was being told he was free to go. Not likely, but he followed. Oh, that's right! That one word was "follow me." It sounded different when Master Splinter said it. Well, fat chance of that. Mike stepped out of the closet and, quick as a striking viper—quick as a striking viper!--threw a kick at the small of Takeshi's back.

Suddenly, Mike was on the floor, crying out in pain and clutching his leg, which felt like it had gotten a Charlie Horse and spontaneously combusted. Takeshi stood over him with a little smirk, like he was watching a child trying to tie his shoes. _Crapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrapcrap OW_. Mike took a deep breath and hissed it out slowly, then sprang to his feet, lashing out with a jabbing puch. He might have been striking in slow motion, as easily as Takeshi knocked his arm aside, hitting him close to the ball of his thumb. Fiery ice prickles lanced all the way up Mike's arm, and he found himself doubled over and cradling the abused limb. _What the hell is this?_

Oh wait. Pressure points. Duh. He hadn't been very good at those, so he'd never practiced. Takeshi was making it look like a game—one of the easy ones like Candy Land or Sorry. Mike glanced up. In fact, Takeshi looked bored.

CRACK!

Mike was on the floor again. His head was throbbing and he'd bitten his tongue. _Pay attention, Michelangelo!_ He rebounded, swinging a punch in the same motion. Takeshi turned it aside, but not before Mike had given him a glancing blow. Triumph! He had touched the untouchable one! He barely saw a hand flying at him in time to dodge, spin around, and land a blow to the back of the sensei's neck. Barely. Takeshi ducked like a Whack-a-Mole doll as soon as Mike's fingers touched him.

THWACK!

Okay, this was getting tiresome. It was the second time Mike had bitten his tongue, and it hurt and was annoying. Takeshi had twisted around and brought his fists up to meet Mike's chin. Before the stars in front of his eyes could even apear all the way, let alone clear, his legs were knocked out from under him and an explosion of pain in his face was the last thing he knew.

By the time he came to, head hurting like it had been hit with a cartoon anvil, he could recognize that evil fluorescent light even as it glared through his closed eyelids. He cracked open his eyes, only letting in as much light as he could stand. Yep, he was back in the closet. Takeshi was standing over him, deadpan again. He spoke in Japanese, and this time, Mike understood him.

"We will do this again in the morning," Takeshi said simply, and breezed out of the closet, shutting the door behind him. Mike could feel every clank of every link in the chain, the crack as the lock was shut, then silence.

Wait. _We will do this again in the morning. What the hell was that supposed to mean?_ Master Splinter sometimes said that as they left the dojo, when he was dissatisfied with their performance and wanted a repeat of the same exercises the next day. But that was Master Splinter. This was Ito Takeshi, a Foot chunin. His enemy. Foot equaled enemy. His enemy had beaten the crap out of him just now. And he would do it again in the morning. What did that mean?

_Holy crap—was he just trying to _train_ me?_


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: The only characters in this story that belong to me are Takeshi, Wakako, Saeko, and Ichizo. All the others, characters and groups alike, belong to either Peter Laird/Mirage Studios or Stan Sakai/Dark Horse. Please do not use my characters without my expressed permission.

* * *

"The quarters are cramped," Usagi apologized as the party squeezed onto the benches at a table meant for four in an overcrowded tavern. "Only a handful of these people are from this village. The rest are refugees or, ah, newly orphaned samurai."

"Ronin?" Leonardo was sitting on the edge of the bench, half-hanging off, leaning forward to hear every word the ronin spoke. His shell was a problem, taking up more space than he had, putting Master Splinter in a rather nervous position between him and Raph, crowded by both of them. Don sat on the other side by Tomoe, who scooted closer to Usagi with an uncomfortable frown.

Usagi nodded gently. "Many have become ronin in this war. We here are an army of ronin, I suppose."

"And who leads them?" Leo already had a good idea what that answer was, judging by the honorific the samurai guard at the gate had used.

Here, Usagi's eyes dropped, and he scratched the back of his neck in embarrassment. "Ah, well...they seem to have become...well, they're impressed with-with the fighting style of--"

"They've made Usagi their captain," Tomoe cut in, casting a subtle look of pride in the ronin's direction. Usagi looked even more embarrassed, a half-smothered smile inflating his face.

Raph's eye ridges raised. "Congrats."

"Hm?" Usagi blinked at him in confusion, then a light came on in his eyes, as though he had deciphered Raph's lingo. "Oh—thank you. But honestly, I'd rather take orders in this case. It is difficult to make decisions when the fate of many depends on your word. Nevertheless, it is a great honor to have so much trust placed in me, as much as it is a great responsibility." He nabbed the elbow of a passing girl and murmured an order to her before letting her go on her way.

"Who are you fighting?" Splinter asked him, forced to speak loudly over the noise in the room.

"No one knows," Tomoe answered him. "An army from the West, we believe. They do not speak to us, only slay us. They are warriors like we have never seen—completely ruthless, unafraid of death, honorless—and there are so many of them that we are overwhelmed. We have fought them for a month, and they have already taken most of Japan." Her eyes fell. "They overtook the Geishu province only two weeks ago. Lord Noriyuki escaped with another of his retainers—I could not get to him in time, to my shame. I do not know where he is, and can only pray that he is safe."

"Jotaro was with his sensei when a unit came there, demanding quarter." Usagi's face was dark. "Katsuichi-sensei told Jotaro to escape out the back. Instead of obeying, he hid and watched his master slay many before he was cut down at last. He managed to escape and find one of my friends, who brought him to me."

"What happened to the ninja?" asked Don. "Jotaro said they were mostly wiped out."

"Rumor has it that there was some sort of rivalry," said Usagi, "but the fall of the ninja seems terribly coincidental at this time. I think perhaps this enemy of ours is slicker than the daimyo give him credit for."

"Did they think the ninja would rise against them?"

"It's definitely possible, or they might have hired the ninja to assassinate the shogun, and silenced them from within somehow."

Leo's eyes widened, hands tightening. "The shogun was assassinated?"

"He died," Usagi said with a slight raise of his brows. "They think his heart failed him. But as with the ninja, it's quite a coincidence. The fall of the shogunate left the daimyo in a struggle for power, each wanting to protect his own province. It would be harder on our enemy if we were united under the shogun. Now it's just a mess."

The girl appeared and set down a pot of tea and six cups, as well as a jar of steaming sake—watered down, Leo guessed, eyeing the number of people around. He wondered, with this many people crowded into a tiny village, how many supplies were already dwindling. He glanced from his cup to Usagi's eyes. "This doesn't seem like an ideal place to host a few hundred refugees. How do you get your supplies?"

Usagi shook his head. "We have a rationing system in place, but it's not always effective. The way things are, not many merchants travel, let alone into the mountains in the winter. The people of the village keep stores of rice and dried foods, but only enough to last them the winter, without accounting for a hundred or so refugees. I'm afraid it won't last us much longer."

"Isn't there a way for civilians to escape on their own?"

"Nooo," moaned a high-pitched voice from nowhere, nearly making Leo jump out of his skin. "There's no hope. We all make…rice. Cakes."

The voice was coming from beneath the raised table, and curious, Leo lifted the edge of the tablecloth. A pair of unsettling, glazed-over, almond-shaped blue eyes peered back at him from the shadows. He could smell alcohol-breath. After glimpsing a kimono worn in a woman's style, he quickly dropped the tablecloth. Privacy and all. He glanced up to meet Usagi's eyes. The samurai shrugged.

"So what about Leo's question?" Don was drinking his sake too quickly, and seeing that Tomoe had not touched hers, gave her an inquiring look. She passed it over with the look of one giving up a cup full of dead cockroaches. Leo guessed that the lady samurai was not impressed with the watered-down beverage. In which case, it most likely wasn't fit for consumption. He slid his toward Raph, who cast him a glare as if spiteful that Leo would try to hoist the drink on him. Raph in turn slid it over to Don. Leonardo snatched it back with a tense frown. They needed to concentrate on Usagi's answer. If for any reason they weren't able to return home, he expected to be lending Usagi a hand. It was the least they could do after all the ronin's help. A drunk Don wouldn't be able to concentrate. Therefore, a drunk Don was to be avoided.

"In theory, they can escape," Usagi said slowly, warming his hands with his cup of tea, "but really, this is as safe a place for them as can be found, tactically speaking. On one side is a river, and mountains guard the other side. It's difficult to take an army up here, but I doubt that will stop them from trying. In fact," he added, face falling, "I'm sure it won't. When that time comes, I hope you four are long gone."

Splinter cleared his throat. "I will attempt to open a portal to the Battle Nexus when we have finished here. If all goes well, we shall be home tonight."

"Sir?"

Leo glanced to the originator of the voice. A tiny grey field mouse, no more than four feet in height, was tugging on the dark red sleeve of his kimono. "Excuse me, sir. Have you seen a drunk weasel? I thought she was around here somewhere…"

Taking a guess, Leo lifted the edge of the tablecloth, and the mouse squinted as thought fighting very poor vision. "Saeko? Is that you?"

The lump of a creature under the table groaned. "No. Go away."

The mouse scowled. "I told you not to get drunk here!" He reached under the table and grabbed something that turned out to be an arm, and the lump unraveled into a long, sleek, brown-furred vision of morose drunkenness. White makeup still tinted a few long strands of fur on her face—the makeup probably started out as a liquid combed through the fur, Leo guessed—but most had rubbed off over the course of the day. Her once-luxurious gold-embroidered pink silk kimono was rumpled and frayed at the bottom, the wide white _obi_ sash unceremoniously knotted in the back. She had lost one wooden sandal and had obvious trouble keeping the other one on as she stumbled out from under the table and nearly landed in Don's lap. She collapsed on top of the mouse, whiskers and long tail dropping to dangerously depressed lows, her eyes bloodshot, her kimono badly stained with impoverished addiction. With an indignant squawk, the mouse fought his way from beneath her over-relaxed body and grabbed both her hands, struggling with all his might to raise her even into a sitting position. Someone snorted, and Leo glanced back at a somewhat amused Raphael. Don was struggling to keep his composure, and Splinter's whiskers twitched. Tomoe looked away, while Usagi met Leo's eyes with the tired patience of a man who had only thought this was funny the first eight times it had happened.

"Saeko, you lazy pinhead!" the mouse cried, at last hoisting the woman into a sitting position. "Do dunk your head in the horse trough! You look like nine shades of hell. You want to marry a man, you must first attract one, not repel him with your stinking breath!"

That ruled out the "married couple" theory Leo had been forming in his head. Besides, the mouse looked significantly older than the possibly twenty-something weasel, and his clothing betrayed his lower-middle-class status. The weasel, on the other hand, was dressed as a geisha, or perhaps a former geisha considering how sloppily she'd gone about it, and was not likely available. The mouse didn't look angry, only frustrated and somewhat frantic. His words brought more than a groan from the weasel this time, for she uncurled to her feet—she stood so much taller than his squat frame that the effect was jarring—and whimpered.

"'Chigo," she slurred, slumping.

"Ichizo," the mouse corrected impatiently, taking her elbow and glancing self-consciously at his impromptu audience. "You know that is my name. Stop—"

"Ichigo," she repeated, and Leo was not convinced that she did so by mistake, "you are an ugly old man. I hate you."

"Do not slump, Sa. You will grow a hunched back and become as ugly as me." Ichizo's tone was slightly bitter, and Leo couldn't blame him. He wouldn't want to be called a strawberry, either.

"Ugh," Saeko aspirated dryly, glazed-over eyes rolling heavenward. "I hate you. I will always hate you. You are the deepest, darkest pit of shit I could ever fall into, you pathetic, worthless old rat." She straightened, Leo noticed.

"Some on, Sa-chan," Ichizo said patiently, herding her toward the door. "At least with me you are not sleeping in the stables. You have my little girl's room, and that is the best anyone will give you. I keep you from smelling like hay and horse shit. That should earn me your gratitude."

"I hope you die in hay and horse shit," snarled Saeko as she was led away, limping for lack of one sandal. "I hope horses and donkeys piss on your—"

Leo didn't get the chance to hear the last of that sentiment as the door closed behind the pair. He felt like he'd just watched a play that appalled the prude and delighted the teenager in him. Raph was still sniggering behind him, and Don had buried his grin in his cup of sake, looking slightly glazed himself. "Do they make a scene here often?" Leo ventured to ask Usagi.

Tomoe snorted. Usagi sighed. "Ichizo-san is very patient with her, Leonardo-san. Do not think ill of him. She has fought him off entirely before and gone back to her drink, leaving him bruised. It happens more often now for her to go with him quietly as you saw. I believe she tired of this constant bickering. He takes care of her and asks nothing in return."

"She could wring him out and hang him up to dry," Don commented, staring at the door thoughtfully. "He's _tiny_."

Tomoe muttered something under her breath that sounded like, "And she is no geisha." Leo frowned but said nothing. Splinter's ears twitched, and Leo guessed he had heard Tomoe's comment as well.

* * *

"FROM THE MINUTE THAT I SAW HER SHE WAS DIFFERENT FROM THE REST! BUT I DIDN'T HEAR HER TALKIN', I WAS STARIN' AT HER CHEST!"

Michelangelo sat in the closet, belting SR-71 at the top of his lungs.

"I KNOW IT'S JUST A WASTE OF TIME! SOON I'M GONNA RUN OUT OF LIES! SHE'LL JUST HAFTA HEAR THE TRUTH INSTEAD!"

So far, he hadn't gotten a single response from Takeshi, or anyone else. More problematic was that he was running out of annoying songs. He'd already gone through the theme song to Beverly Hillbillies several times, as well as most every Beach Boys song he could remember. Oh wait.

"WOULDN'T IT BE NICE IF WE WERE OLDER? THEN WE WOULDN'T HAVE TO WAIT SO LONG!"

And of course, there was always the timeless classic…

"THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS! YES IT GOES ON AND ON MY FRIENDS! SOME PEOPLE—STAAARTED SINGIN' IT NOT KNOWIN' WHAT IT WAS, AND THEY'LL CONTINUE SINGIN' IT FOREVER JUST BECAUSE THIS IS THE SONG THAT NEVER ENDS…"

Mike was _hungry_. By his estimation, it had been a day since his last meal. Takeshi had only spoken to him once since the torture disguised as training, and that was to refuse to feed him until his body had cooled down. That had been hours ago, and he was done waiting. No one was immune to the influence of his Secret Mutant Power of Driving People Crazy, not even the stone-faced sensei. Mike was perfectly happy to set the man's teeth chattering until he was fed. This plot had been going on for over an hour, and his voice was giving out. He was thirsty, but determined to outlast the stubborn silence coming from the other side of the door.

"PEACHES COME IN A CAN! THEY WERE PUT THERE BY A MAN! IN A FACTORY, DOWN-TOOOOOOWN! IF I HAD MY LITTLE WAY, I'D EAT PEACHES EVERY DAY! NATURES CANDY IN M'HAND, INNA CAN, OR A JAR! MILLIONS OF PEACHES, PEACHES FOR ME! MILLIONS OF PEACHES, PEACHES FOR FREE!"

Mike rested his carapace against the wall of the closet and tilted his head back. When he belted at just the right angle, his voice rang off the metal shelving nicely. It added a positively maddening buzz to the songs. He flipped into a falsetto register, which was not only irritating but easier on his ailing voice than the constant shouting.

"I'M A BARBIE GIRL! IN A BARBIE WORRRRLD! LIFE IN PLASTIC, IT'S FANTASIC!"

His throat was _killing_ him. Takeshi's patience had to be equally worn. The idea that Takeshi's resilience was less finite than Mike's voice was too unsettling and embarrassing to consider for long.

"This song is just six words long, this song is just six words long, couldn't think of any lyrics, no I never wrote the lyrics, so I'll just sing any old lyrics that come to mind, child..."

After what must have been hours of hearty singing, his voice could barely muster a whisper, and even that hurt. Exhausted, he sucked at the insides of his lips, trying to stimulate the saliva glands there and moisten his parched throat. He was every bit as hungry as before. Well, maybe a little less. His stomach seemed to be getting as bored as he was and falling asleep. It was a familiar feeling from the more uncomfortable days of his childhood—his stomach would sleep, and gradually, so would the rest of him as he lost energy and his metabolism slowed. The singing had worked to stave off the inevitable boredom, but now there was nothing to do. There wasn't enough room in here to do much of anything besides crunches or push-ups. He doubted the structural integrity of the metallic shelving, or he might have hung from the bars and done some calisthenics. Maybe the closet was long enough for flips.

A little experimentation and a banged knee proved that the closet was not long enough for flips. He settled for push-ups. Low blood sugar and sleep deprivation truncated the workout, and he tried whistling every Beatles tune he could think of. When that used up the last of his saliva reserves, he decided that sleep sounded better than—

"Michelangelo."

Mike jerked upright, eyes heavily sanded with sleep he couldn't remember falling into. Everything in front of him was a blur of shadows and shapes until his eyes focused on the tall, rigid figure of Takeshi, carrying a tray with a pot of tea, a bowl of soup, and a glass of water.

Food!

Takeshi bent to set the tray down at his feet, then sat on the floor in front of him. "Eat. You are hungry."

It took every ounce of Mike's fragile willpower not to guzzle the water in a single breath. It tasted amazing, like liquid life or something (he would have to come up with a decent simile later). The soup was made from miso, with thick, slippery udon noodles. Takeshi ate nothing, only poured himself a steaming cup from the pot of tea. Mike didn't touch the tea until both glass and bowl were dry. Even when he did, it was more to inhale the soothing steam than enjoy the taste. When he sipped it, he found, to his surprise, a mint flavor in with the typical mild brightness of the green tea. He barely even missed the milk and sugar it lacked.

"Thank you." Mike's thickened vocal cords tripped over themselves.

Takeshi gave him a brief, dry glance.

Well, that wasn't very gratifying. Or much of a connection at all. Mike swallowed. "Domo arigatou," he said with a less-than-perfect accent.

The older sensei suddenly met his eyes, and for the first time, Michelangelo could see the trace of dark gold in each pool of black-brown, the surface of an endlessly deep sea of thought, an intimate knowledge of reality, and the complex workings of a powerful mind. Takeshi dipped his head slowly, nodding in acknowledgment, then gathered the dishes, gently taking the cup of tea from Mike's hand, stood, and walked through the door with the dignity and poise of an ancient statue.

There was a keen sense of loss when the lock clicked shut.

* * *

"Raphael-san?"

Raph jumped when a soft voice sounded behind him, and he whipped around to see Jotaro's dark eyes gazing up at him. "Don't call me 'san,'" he said uncomfortably, prickling at the honorific. "Just Raphael."

Jotaro's eyes widened. "Really?" he asked skeptically, as if certain that Raph was teasing him.

In the back of his mind, Raph remembered how big a deal it was for the Japanese not to use an honorific when speaking about someone—it either meant great intimacy or great insult. "Um, where I come from? We don't always use honorifics. Like, in the States--"

"The States?"

_Kid's damn good at interrupting_, he bristled. "That's where I'm from. There, you'd know me well enough ta just call me Raphael. Or Raph, even."

Jotaro nodded solemnly. "Then I'll call you Raph," he said gravely as though shouldering a great responsibility.

"Good." Raph relaxed. "Now, what didja want?"

"Where's Michelangelo-san?"

Raph tensed again. The kid had mentioned knowing about Mike earlier, but why did he care? Nah, Jotaro was just being sensitive or something. "I don't know."

Jotaro's eyes widened in understanding. "Was he captured?"

The ninja remembered seeing the river open to receive Michelangelo. "Something like that."

"By who?"

"I don't know."

"Aren't you going to rescue him?"

"When get back to my world, I will."

Jotaro kicked at a clump of trodden snow. "Do you miss him?"

That was not a question Raph knew how to answer. Of course he missed Mike, but missing him wasn't really the point, was it? He was worried about him. Afraid for him, as much as he would like to say he feared nothing. And yes, somewhere in there, he missed his brother and was too proud to admit it. "Why?"

"I'd miss my brother, if I had one. I miss my parents."

"Why don'tcha go back?"

"Uncle Usagi won't let me go by myself, and I don't want to go anyway."

"Not even ta see your parents?"

Jotaro hesitated. "Their village was burned down. I heard Lady Tomoe talking about it. Nobody knows where...where my parents are." He blinked rapidly, assuming a brave face. "They could be..."

Raph found himself pulling the child comfortingly against his side in a casual half-hug. "Hey. Don't worry 'bout it. Usagi'll take care a' ya."

"I can take care of myself," Jotaro protested, wiping furiously at his eyes. "I really can. I just...I'm scared. For them. Not for me."

"I been there, kid. One time, I didn't know if my father was dead or not."

"What do you do?"

"Whatcha can. The point is, don't go down unless you did all you could do ta stay on your feet. Whether or not they're dead ain't somethin' you can do nothin' about this second, but you sure as hell can do all ya can ta find 'em if they're alive, an' keep 'em that way. Same goes for me an' Mikey, which you shouldn't worry about. Mikey can take care of himself, just like you." Raph's tongue darted out to wet his lips. He regretted it after the cold hit them. _Damn_. "What about your dad—father?"

"He's one of the best samurai in Japan."

"Then I bet he gotcher mother outta there before they got hurt."

Jotaro gave him a dubious look, and Raph realized he may have given an unintentional insult by implying that the boy's father would run from a battle. "You think I should go find them?"

_Kid, I don't even know if I'm gonna get to go find the family I got missing, and it ain't for lack of wanting it._ "Uh, I think you needa do what your Uncle Usagi tells ya, for now. I mean, I know you can take care a' yourself an' all, but Usagi knows what's goin' on, an' he knows when it's safe...er for people ta travel wherever. Right now, it'd be suicide ta leave, even if you're the Battle Nexus Champion. So wait till Usagi says it's okay, all right?"

Jotaro nodded, but he didn't look happy. "All right."

"You're a good kid."

"I'm not a kid."

"Right."

"Raph?"

That wasn't Jotaro's voice. Raph's heart jumped, and he snapped his head around to look at Leo. Of all the people to catch him in a heart-to-heart with a kid...well, at least it wasn't Mikey. "What?" he snarled.

Leo's face was deadpan, bottling alarm that only Raph could read. "You need to come with me."

Raph's eyes narrowed, feeling his blood begin to boil. Like Leo could boss him around in front of a kid! "Yeah? Well--"

"Cut the crap, Raph," Leo interrupted. "Master Splinter tried to open a portal to the Battle Nexus, and something happened."

Raph froze. "What?"

"He collapsed, and we can't wake him up."

* * *

There was a spider in an upper corner of the closet.

Mike named her Klunk II. It was a familiar, comforting name, and the Roman numerals made it differ enough from Klunk the Cat's name that Klunk wouldn't be offended when Mike came home and told him about the spider friend he'd made when he was away. Klunk II was brown, sleek-looking, and rarely moved. When she did move, it was to pointlessly jostle her web, or at least, that was what Michelangelo could tell. Maybe she was strengthening her web, or ensnaring a gnat, or hosting a disco with all her little ghost-spider friends. There were all sorts of possibilities, and Mike didn't know enough about spiders in general to be able to tell. _Maybe I'll read up on spiders when I get home._

He hadn't noticed her until he had finished collecting all the stray bits of carpet from the edges of the tiny closet and piling them up in a tiny mound in the approximate center of the floor. A half-in carpet tack he'd managed to wrench loose had served as an aborigine from a distant tropical island, dancing around the pile of carpet-strands like it was a sacrificial bonfire. Somehow, he had ended up staring at the ceiling, trying to picture a host of stars in a black sky against that blank ceiling and maddening fluorescent light. He had considered using the tack to try to unscrew the light and take out the blub when he by chance had glanced into the exact corner that sheltered Klunk II.

Mike scattered the bits of carpet with one toe. "Remember when we first met, Klunkers?" he asked softly, watching the spider crawl slowly across a silken web strand. "At first, I was like, 'Augh, a spider!' Then I realized I wasn't Raph and stopped being a wuss. You remember that?"

Klunk II continued creeping across her web.

"Yeah, that was a good day. Hour. Whatever it was. It's just kinda...nice to know someone else is here, you know?"

Klunk II paused, feeling other strands of the web with one foot.

"Although I've had more exciting roommates. You're pretty mellow. I remember when me and Raph used to room together, when we were kids. Ah, the nightly assassination attempts. Speaking of which, hope you're not poisonous. If you are, it's a good thing you're up there and I'm down here. We can just...consider the top half your half, and this is my half."

Klunk II had no comment.

"Well, sor-ry! I didn't mean to imply you're boring. Although you could at least, like, do something besides crawl around every now and then. I mean, you haven't even started weaving messages into your web! You haven't said I'm 'Some Turtle!'"

Klunk II began to ascend slowly, climbing up her web now.

Michelangelo chewed his lower lip, considering. She didn't look poisonous. She was just kinda brown, and not even that big. Very pretty, actually, in a creepy crawly way. Nothing like Shelob at all. Ignoring the boundary he just set, he stood up and seized one of the shelves below Klunk II's home. Hoisting himself up, he released the shelf with one hand and reached as far as he could, straining, until his fingers hovered right in front of the little spider's path, coaxing her to climb on. Klunk II hesitated, front legs probing hesitantly, less than a cautious breath of wind against his skin.

The fluorescent light went off. There was a crash from outside, and Mike dropped to the floor, heart hammering. The crash sounded like a door slamming into a wall after being thrown open. Someone had charged in, but before that, someone had turned out the light from outside the closet. He heard a woman's voice snarling in Japanese. Barely daring to breathe, he crept to the door and pressed his ear-slit against it.

The voice was Wakako's, and one of the last things he could hear her say was the word _kame_. Turtle.

Takeshi's even baritone was a stark contrast, a smooth, glassy sea compared to her raging torrent. "_I do not keep him here,_" came his fluid Japanese.

"_Where?_" demanded Wakako, her footsteps and others scattering over the room. A heavy fist knocked hard on the closet door, and Michelangelo jumped back.

"_Why should I tell you, Wakako-san?_" Takeshi asked calmly. "_Leave my..._" Mike couldn't understand this part. _"He isn't here._"

"_You are lying_," hissed Wakako. "_You have lost him. He has escaped you. I should have you..._" She was talking too fast.

"_Be calm. I am not lying. You know this. You want me to show him to you, and when I do, you will take him and kill him. Remember who taught you._"

With five slow sentences, Takeshi had both turned Mike's blood to ice and caused silence to come over the rest of the room. A small hiss and a curse came from Wakako. Several sets of footsteps sounded, then a door shut. There was more silence, overruled only by the pounding of Mike's heart.

_Holy crap. He was serious._

Mike slid to his knees, leaning heavily against the door and pressing his palm to the smooth, painted surface. _Takeshi's protecting me. Why?_ He would have to ask sometime, if that door opened again. Regardless, it meant something, touched something inside him that he'd never quite understood, assuaged that knot of quiet, smoothed-over panic that had been in his stomach every time that padlock had clicked shut.

He wasn't alone.


	5. Chapter 5

The universe was reduced to a sheet of black, an unnatural sleep that absorbed light, thought, and the senses. It was thick and impenetrable—Splinter could reach out and press against it, feel it, try to rip it from his face and tear it out of his mind, but there was no such thing as movement here. Distantly, he could feel his body breathing, his heart throbbing weakly, his veins pulsing with fragile life, but the moment he tried to focus on it, it was gone. That shrank to nothing when he found that he could not sense his sons.

They had always been there, halos in his mind, warm auras of life and brilliance, and they were gone. It had never been a reliable way of finding any of them, as he could not place the auras in any physical location, but he had known, in calm, clear moments, how each of them fared. Alarm and terror clouded this ability, but under no circumstances could he force himself to feel anything so sharply in this state, this place, this black haze. He could not sense his sons because they were not there, or because something cut him off from them.

When he reached out for the memory of what had brought him here, his hands only returned with the same nothing that smothered him. He pressed harder, futilely, then stopped. Some things could be seen in one's peripheral vision that could not be seen outright. Relaxing, he allowed himself to open, and what was brought to him was

_A glowing symbol, low chanting, a sharp jerk as though he had been seized, then_

The universe was reduced to a sheet of black, an unnatural sleep that absorbed light, thought, and the senses. It was thick and impenetrable, and Splinter was helpless against it. _Not helpless. Never helpless. Not while I am of use._

"You ah no use here, Splintah-san."

It was only a voice, echoless, half-absorbed by the thick darkness, but Splinter knew it. _Ancient One. Why have you sent me here? Are you acting under orders from the Tribunal?_

A lighthearted chuckle. "Dis not a here, Splintah-san. You should know dat. Dis is a liddle space in da furdest reaches ob yoh mind. You be safe here, and not interfere."

_Being sensei to my pupils and father to my sons is interference?_ He knew he should be angry, but the nothing absorbed whatever traces of rage blossomed from him.

"You smother your students. You ah too close to dem. Trust me, Splintah-san—have I led you wrong?"

_I did trust you._

"Den trust me now. Yoh older sons in great danger, as ah you. An army is coming to wipe out all in dis village who do not surrender. Do you believe your sons will surrender?"

_Not with innocent lives at stake._

"Den you understand dat you all face certain death, unless you escape dis place."

_You have stopped us from doing just that, Shishou-sama._

"Nah, I just stop you from making tings easy fo' dem. Once you open da portal, I can reach trough and konk you out. I do same fo' all who try to bring you back here, except one."

_One?_

"Yes. Dere only one who may rescue you, Splintah-san, and he is on dis side."

_Michelangelo. He is alive, then._ The muffled joy Splinter felt was barely satisfactory, but sharper than anything he had been able to feel in this state.

"Yes, he alive. But he does not know where you are, or what you face. If he does not find out, he will lose all he have, as will you."

_And what is the point? Why do you punish him for what he cannot find for himself? Why do you punish us? What gives you the authority to choose..._ The walls of darkness became more absorbent, sucking his thoughts from his being and into other portions of his mind that he could not access.

"You ask too many questions. Do not be such worry-wart. He can find you, if he seek within himself."

_You are...playing with our lives._

That merry chuckle again, and the voice did not dim, but was absorbed more by the darkness. "Splintah-san, you such a baby. Hab I ebah giben you reason not to trust me?"

Then there was only the nothing again.

* * *

Takeshi's tools of teaching were a pillow, a blanket, and a ceramic pot with a lid. They had "magically" appeared in the linen closet one day while Michelangelo slept. The whoops and cheers Takeshi had heard a few hours later coming from the closet were enough to tell him he had given his student an extra Christmas this year. However, he had a point to make with these items. As happily as his pupil had accepted bedding and a way to relieve himself without being marched to the bathroom twice a day, he had just as unhappily complained when they were taken away the next day after a disappointing performance during training.

"Luxuries are a privilege, Michelangelo," Takeshi had told him patiently. "You must earn your privileges back if you desire them."

Takeshi watched as his student performed an advanced kata with no weapon. Michelangelo's silly dependence on his over-used nunchaku would have to be wrung from him. He stopped drinking his tea in mid-sip. His assignment was not to actually teach this boy proper fighting. It was his inclination, however, and it did not hurt to do so, if all went well. He continued sipping his tea. Whatever Michelangelo had learned, it was not exactly ninjutsu, but a spinoff, an interpretation. It was very good and legitimate, but it was not ninjutsu.

The master set his cup down. "That is enough, Michelangelo," he said in his own language. He refused to lower himself to using his admittedly poor grasp of English, and they were getting on just fine with their current arrangement. Michelangelo had picked up a great deal of Japanese that he could now understand but not speak, whereas Takeshi could now understand his pupil's bizarre lingo but didn't dare to compromise his dignity by attempting it. "Show me fire."

The turtle blinked at him, suddenly frozen.

Takeshi blinked at him slowly. "The defensive position of fire. Show me." He suspected the boy knew nothing about this, but wanted to be sure. He seemed to know so much Takeshi had never heard of, although Takeshi would never admit it, but so much less than he should.

Sure enough, Michelangelo planted both feet apart, made the shape of a gun with his hands, and "fired" it straight at the wall, complete with sound effects. It was not amusing.

Takeshi lifted his cup again and took a sip. "Are you saying you know nothing of the five elements?" His eyes trained on his student, lids at half-mast, head tilted downward to sip his tea.

A spark lit in Michelangelo's eyes. "Oh! Yeah, we fought those guys way back when. They were, uh, wind, water, fire, earth, and metal."

Everything had been sounding good enough to be a recitation from a five-year-old until the turtle had reached that last word. Takeshi paused, wondering briefly is Michelangelo had gotten the five elements of ninjutsu mixed with those of feng shuy. "Metal?"

"Yeah."

"Not metal," Takeshi corrected him, setting down his tea. "You may have another guess." He watched his pupil with catlike intent, radiating the impression that the consequences of getting this answer wrong would be dire.

That bizarre, inhuman face scrunched up in thought. From the beginning, Takeshi had been fascinated with the range of expression this supposedly impossible being was equipped with. Every now and then, he caught himself studying the humanity in the eyes of this alien face, grotesquely enthralled by the differences between what he had pictured when he had heard of these turtles and what was now before him. His mind had fashioned a snapshot, looking much like Michelangelo, but lacking the life and motion exploding from him now. He had known they were intelligent, but he hadn't considered that they would have personalities. In the end, it made Michelangelo no different from any other student, in all the good and bad ways. As he watched in detached interest, one of the turtle's eye ridges raised in pathetic defeat, lips pouting slightly.

"Easy Mac?" he half-squeaked, one corner of his mouth quirking in a solid wince.

Takeshi had no idea what he was talking about, but rose to his feet and folded his arms authoritatively, eyes narrowing slightly.

"What?" Michelangelo asked, sounding exasperated. "You think I paid attention when Master Splinter was talking about stuff?"

"The five elements are a central concept in ninjutsu," Takeshi said slowly.

"You mean like the five positions--" That light came on again in Michelangelo's eyes. "Oh. That's what...okay. Yeah. He talked about those, I just didn't know what he meant in Japanese. So it's, um..."

"Void," Takeshi answered for him, letting a little rough impatience leak into his voice. Apparently the boy had been taught the positions and their Japanese terms, at least, which would make his job easier. "Earth, wind, water, fire, and void. What did you learn of actual ninjutsu in your training?"

"Um," said Michelangelo, scratching the back of his neck, "body, mind, and spirit?"

"Yes," Takeshi said dryly, beginning to feel the tendrils of actual impatience. He stifled them, holding those impossible eyes again. "Even more elementary than the five elements. You should take pride in yourself."

Ever irrepressible, the turtle grinned. "I do. I'm the Battle Nexus Champion."

_What?_ Takeshi's brows sank low over his eyes. What nonsense was the boy going on about now? _Never mind._ "As I was--"

"Battle Nexus Champion?" his student said hopefully, eye ridges inching upward. The boy was unusually perceptive if he had caught Takeshi's momentary confusion. "You know, greatest warrior in the multiverse?"

If Michelangelo had sensed his confusion, Takeshi would make it seem as though his confusion was about how pitiful a student like he could achieve any such thing. "You are not the greatest warrior of anything," he said patiently, "if I am able to defeat you so easily. You are lacking in body. You are easily distracted. I have not tested you in mind and spirit."

"My moonshine's okay, but Don said I lost my mind a long time ago," Michelangelo said with an irritating laugh that raised the hair on the back of Takeshi's neck. That such a being could laugh like that was...

It took all of his willpower to ignore the comment and its accompanying sound. "I will test you today on exercises that any young _genin_ of the Foot can do with ease." He picked up his cup and saucer and drained the last of his tea. "Be prepared."

"But," Michelangelo said slowly, "thing is, I can kick your guys' butts. Except you, I mean. But back in New York--"

"You have not encountered the Foot of Japan before," Takeshi interrupted, hackles rising. He could not let the boy annoy him like this. Not that Michelangelo could be blamed for his misconception, considering the ways in which the American Foot had strayed during the leadership of Oroku Saki, who had never truly followed the old ways. Now Karai, his pupil, led them in the same direction, and would draw the Japanese division with them into destruction. But worse than Karai was Wakako, in power of the Japanese division during Karai's absence, with as much taste for power as Karai had for vengeance. Takeshi followed neither and obeyed only one, and that only because he, unlike his superior or his former pupil, was a true ninja.

Clan loyalty was not something that had been brainwashed or beaten into Ito Takeshi at a young age, but born into him, singing through his veins as surely as any other inheritance from the soil of Japan. Members of his clan disappointed him, strayed from the original teachings of ninjutsu—none more than the paltry American brethren. While Takeshi lived, however, and while the young spirits of his students were willing to listen, there would be a model of ninjutsu's true heart, and the old ways of the _ryu_ would live on.

"If you wish to survive here," he said slowly, turning towards the kitchen, "then you must learn how to fight."

From behind him, there was a moment of silence, then, "That's...awesome, but why do you care if I survive?"

Takeshi ignored him. "When I return, I will expect you to be in your closet. You will have two hours to practice before I test your psychic abilities."

"Wha...you can't just not answer!" Michelangelo's voice was steeped with urgency and indignation. "It's been driving me nuts! Why do you care if I survive?"

Takeshi did not wait any longer. He walked into the kitchen to rinse the dishes. _I can just not answer, Michelangelo. If you must know, I do not care if you survive. I do not care if Oroku Karai takes her petty revenge. I obey her, as I will obey the one who succeeds her when she dies stupidly, because she is jonin. But I do not hate either of you any more than I love either of you. One enemy or another, one jonin or another, it does not matter. I am a part of something more important. I am ninja.

* * *

  
_

Raphael hunched in the doorway of the small cabin, staring at the snow-laden town like it would dissolve into something considerably warmer and with more concrete. Behind him, in the stifling coziness of the cabin, voices ping-ponged back and forth at each other, arguing about things that couldn't be done instead of trying to figure out what could be done. Leo was being stupider than anyone.

His voice was speaking now. "I could try to open a portal myself. There might be something--"

Don cut him off. "No way am I letting the same thing happen to you. If Splinter couldn't do it--"

"I could try," came Usagi's somewhat laid-back tones, "but I don't even have your skill, Leonardo-san, let alone your master's. If the same thing went wrong--"

"You're not putting yourself at risk for us, Usagi," Leonardo said firmly. Raph's blood began to simmer. So Leo was fine with knocking himself into a coma, but if someone else offered, it was unthinkable. Like they didn't need Leo. Maybe they didn't need Leo.

Don seemed to share Raph's thoughts. "Then you're not putting yourself at risk, either. Besides, I'm not leaving him here. Even if we could carry him back, which we physically could do, I suppose, who knows what another encounter with a portal would do to him?"

If you'll let me interrupt," Usagi said dryly, annoyed, Raph guessed, at getting interrupted himself, "I do have a friend who can help, if anyone can. There's only one fairly minor problem."

"What's that?" asked Don.

"He's at least four days from here. He's a samurai-turned-priest I've known for years. He has more mastery over this sort of thing than anyone I know besides the Daimyo himself. He has grappled with the strongest demons of the spiritual world. If anyone could help your master, it would be him, and he would probably be able to open a portal safely." The more Usagi spoke, the faster Raph's heart pounded. This was exactly what he'd been waiting to hear—someone who could help Splinter and send them back to find Mike.

But of course, Don had to open his mouth. "Four days in the snow could be the end of him. He needs to lie still, and we need to keep trying to get him to drink water. And as long as he's here, I'm staying with him."

"Then I'll go." Raph found himself speaking for the first time, turning and leaning against the doorway and folding his arms decisively. "When can I leave?"

"Wait, Raph," Leo said quickly.

The little snot was going to make him take him with him. "Don's gonna need your help," Raph pointed out, eyes narrowing.

"He's right," Don said softly, glancing up at Leo from his seat by Splinter's cot. "I mean, you're almost as good at this medical stuff as I am, and I'd appreciate it, but if you want to go..."

Silence fell over the room like a cloak. Tomoe, sitting silently in one corner, shifted. Usagi folded his arms and changed his stance. The hollow sound of Splinter's deep breathing could be heard, but that was all. Finally, Leo nodded slowly. "I'll stay," he said reluctantly. "I...think my place is with him anyway."

"Cool," Raph said impatiently, psyched by the prospect of not being burdened by a brother. "When do I leave?"

Usagi brought a hand up to his face to rest a finger against his jaw, the perfect cartoon image of deep thought. "I sent out scouts five days ago, and I don't want anyone to go out until they come back."

"When do they come back?" Raph prodded.

"They should be back the day after tomorrow. They'll be able to tell us which routes are safe."

"Usagi," Tomoe said suddenly. "He doesn't have to go alone."

Usagi turned toward her, eyes narrow. "I need you here," he said with more urgency than Raph thought necessary.

Tomoe shook her head, never taking her eyes from him. "You know who I'm talking about."

There was a beat of silence, then Usagi glanced briefly at Raph, a trace of thoughtfulness in his eyes. "We'll talk about it later," he said softly.

"Lords?"

Raph jumped at the voice sounding just by his elbow and almost swore. Standing just beside and behind him was a petite canine woman, looking very cold and nervous. "Lords? I heard there was a doctor..."

Leo nudged Don gently. "You're being paged," he whispered.

Don looked up, wide-eyed, then pushed to his feet. "Oh! Well, I'm not..." he stammered. "I can...what do you need?"

The woman pursed her lips against the cold for a moment, then spoke. "My son has been crying all day. It's his ears."

Donatello did not look in his element. "Have you tried covering them? Could it be the cold?"

The woman's eyes narrowed. "It is not the cold. The insides of his ears are bright red."

"Oh. Oh!" Don chewed his lower lip. "That would be an ear infection. Very common, and very curable back on Third Earth, where they have antibiotics. I suppose...but it would take a while to cultivate penicillin here."

The petite mother stared at him in confusion. "I'm...sorry?"

Don sighed. "I'll do what I can, okay? But I can't promise anything."

This was why Raph needed to go alone. Leo had already started talking defensive tactics with Usagi, and he doubted the word about Don's professed medical skills had reached this woman's ears alone. The two of them would be a crazy kind of busy in two days. Raphael, on the other hand, would be going nuts long before the scouts came back. _Find priest. Get priest to open portal. Tell priest to go back for the others. Go through portal. Rescue Mikey._

_Not that anything's ever that simple.

* * *

  
_

Michelangelo stared at the doorknob.

Takeshi had just gone into the kitchen, assuming Mike would go straight back to his closet. But Michelangelo wasn't so used to his captivity that he wasn't still thinking about its end. That doorknob was calling to him.

_It can't possibly be that easy._

Open the door, walk right out, find the nearest window and climb down. Then what? Run through the streets completely undisguised and exposed? No. he would have to wait till night, and stick to the rooftops as usual. Was it night? He had seen no windows in the apartment. He could sneak out, find a window, and check things out, then plan to leave later if the time wasn't right.

Shadows moved through the crack under the door, and Mike squinted at them. Someone was outside. Guards? Probably. They had lost their advantage now that he knew they were there. He could handle two Foot ninja on his own, easily with the element of surprise on his side.

_You have not encountered the Foot of Japan before._

His hand closed around the doorknob. At the same time, he heard a throat clearing. Takeshi stood in the doorway of the kitchen, arms folded, watching him like a hawk. Michelangelo swallowed. He could still go in spite of the ninja master, who was doing nothing to stop him. His hand tightened. At the same time, so did Takeshi's. For the first time, Mike noticed something black in the sensei's hand, mostly obscured by his palm, fingers, and opposite arm. Something black with an antenna. A radio.

Takeshi raised an eyebrow. "What are you waiting for?" he asked simply. "You are free to go."

Mike swallowed again, staring at the radio. What an un-ninja-like thing to have around, but it made so much sense. Takeshi could call for every ninja in the building in a millisecond. With dozens, scores, hundreds of ninja swarming toward this small apartment, packed into a little hallway, most wouldn't even see him before the ones in front had already taken him down.

He released the doorknob.

"I think we will begin your lessons now after all, Michelangelo," Takeshi murmured, eyes glinting.

* * *

The problem with chopsticks was their lack of versatility between different-sized hands. At least, that was the problem Don was coming up with, trying to handle the delicate instruments with his thick fingers. There were only a few noodles in the thin soup he was tackling, but he was hungry and the soup was warm. Usagi had tentatively offered to find him better fare, but something felt wrong about being privileged for no reason while everyone else was doing without. How had the little town run out of supplies so quickly? Or had they run out at all, and were just employing a strict rationing system? Starving to death slowly was no better than starving to death quickly, later on. Maybe he could work with the samurai on some kind of refined system of rationing. They would have to have an accurate head count, though, and that would be difficult to organize.

He drained his soup and set the bowl down. Leo was in one corner, speaking softly with Usagi and Tomoe. Splinter was bundled as heavily as could be managed, still lying in a gentle sleep. Raph had gone out for an evening stroll, which sounded like a decent idea, despite the cold. Don could understand the developing sense of claustrophobia and cabin fever, as he hadn't left the house since the night before. As much as he hated the cold, it was looking like a less and less imposing enemy as his legs ached to take a walk. He was restless, bouncing one leg and tapping his fingers, something indescribable making it impossible to drift into the light nap he'd dreamed of earlier. Maybe a stroll would help him get his thoughts in order. He grabbed a heavy fur cloak and pulled on a pair of boots, wincing at the alien feeling of footwear. It wasn't unpleasant, he decided, and threw the cloak on around his kimono. "I'm going out," he said over his shoulder before slipping out the door.

Snow fell gently from the night sky, painting the town in midair with speckles of white. The flakes danced before Don's eyes like sunspots, like tiny hallucinations, reflections from a thousand broken funhouse mirrors. _This isn't real_. None of this was real. He wasn't taking an evening stroll the day after his brother went missing and his father went into a coma. He wasn't enjoying the snow swishing around his feet as he walked, the feeling of warmth radiating from the cloak clashing with the clean, crisp air, or the velvet black of the sky above. _Because if I really were doing this, enjoying the night air after all this has happened and even worse is to come, I would feel guilty. I would wish Mike was __here, walking with me, enjoying the same things I am._

His throat closed, and so did his eyes. The air felt heavy, oppressive. Guilt. He'd jinxed himself. _You've been too useful since you got here, Donatello. You've been reveling in the fact that people need you here. You've been looking forward to people needing you more. You lost the plot already, and it's been all of a day. You don't belong here._

Guilt, then homesickness. Mike, then Splinter.

"Ow!"

Don turned sharply. Most sane people were inside right now, and he hadn't seen anyone when he came out. Now, a shadowy shape materialized from behind a cart blanketed in snow. The figure was also covered in snow, the long, lean frame shivering pitifully. "Saeko?" He remembered the name from the night before.

The weasel limped forward, kimono even rattier than before. "I caught my sleeve," she mumbled, pointing accusingly at the cart and swaying.

Don winced. She was drunk again. "Sorry to hear that. Can you, uh, get home?"

The flash in Saeko's eyes was slow, delayed by the sake in her system, but bright. "Can I get home?" she snarled, taking a threatening step toward Don, who held his ground. "You," she hissed, jabbing a broken-nailed finger in the general direction of his plastron, "are not a map."

"I realize that," Don said calmly, "but um, you're limping. If you need--"

"Don't say it. I. Do not! Need help." The geisha then proceeded to turn and storm angrily away, hunched over, still limping. With a slight twitch of his lips, Don saw the reason for the limp—she was still walking with only one sandal.

* * *

"Open your mind and ignore your senses. You should be able to tell when my attack is coming before you see or hear a thing."

Not that Michelangelo could see a thing. He was blindfolded and sitting in a chair. Takeshi stood behind him, prepared to bludgeon him to death, or so Mike suspected. This whole idea had been much too suspect from the beginning, even if it did sound like something Master Splinter would come up with. Takeshi had demonstrated how the technique worked just a few minutes ago, though, sitting in this chair himself and letting Mike take a few swings at him with a keibo. Each and every time, Takeshi had leapt out of the way just as Mike began to swing. The trick was apparently to reach out and sense hostile intent somehow. "Something inside should tell you to move," Takeshi had told him. _Well, since I know what he's doing, everything is telling me to move already. Only God knows when he's--_

"OW!"

Mike leapt out of the chair and whipped around, snarling and rubbing his shoulder. He shoved the blindfold out of his eyes. "What was that for?"

"You should have paid attention," Takeshi deadpanned.

"I wasn't ready!" Mike protested.

"Again." Takeshi raped the back of the chair with the keibo.

Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Mike sank back into the chair. He was barely seated before he was struck again, on the same shoulder. He turned and flung out an arm to swipe at his unwanted teacher. Takeshi stepped back easily to avoid the blow.

"Again," he said calmly.

Mike sank back into the chair, fuming. This was impossible. How could he possible be able to do this on the first try? Or on the third? Calm. He needed to be calm. He knew what always calmed him down: babbling. "I think you're nuts. Either that or you're cheating. Cheater-cheater pumpkin eat--"

He leapt out of the chair just as the keibo came down. It whipped past him and struck the chair. The odd sensation that had been screaming for him to move was already gone. _That was...surreal. Totally a Matrix moment. Whoa._ He stared at Takeshi. Takeshi stared back.

The sensei raised both eyebrows nonchalantly. "Again."

"I did it," Mike said quietly.

"Yes, you did. Now do it again."

Wetting his lips, Mike sat back in the chair. _If I did it once, I can--_

WHAP!

Mike let out a roar of frustration and pain. "That's it!" he snarled, jumping again to his feet. "No mercy. I am pulling every prank in the book tonight. You'd better be prepared, mister."

"Again." Takeshi's voice sounded slightly rough.

"No. Not again. I'm not Daniel-san, Mr. Miyagi." He jumped back just as Takeshi's strike lashed out. _Holy crap! This is so cool! I AM THE ONE!_

Takeshi grit his teeth, then a strange, unsettling look covered him. The irritation in his eyes was quenched. His shoulders relaxed. His jaw loosened. He looked at peace. In a completely nonthreatening manner, he reached forward and took Mike's arm in a gentle grip. "No, you are not Daniel-san." He began to walk, his hold on Mike's arm guiding him to follow, but not forcing.

Mike suddenly felt somber and alert. _What is he...?_

Takeshi continued to speak as they walked in the general direction of the closet. "But this is not a movie, Michelangelo. This is not even a test of skills. This is about your life, and whether or not you would preserve it."

They were at the closet. Mike started through the doorway, then turned to look back. "I'm not going back in," he said in quiet defiance, his newfound confidence teetering on what he was sure was the edge of stupidity.

A blow to his plastron knocked him backward suddenly. He lost his balance and fell hard on his rear. He heard the door shut before he could gather himself. The lock snicked in place.

"I am going to make soup," Takeshi said poisonously from the other side of the door. "If you have not ceased this childish disobedience, you will have none."

Mike struggle to his feet. "Yeah? Well, until you let me the hell out of here, I don't want your soup!"

There was silence from the other side, and Mike immediately began to regret his impromptu hunger strike. He passed his hand over his eyes and felt something slimy smear over his forehead. Puzzled, he glanced at his hand. There was a streak of bug guts and long legs over the ball of his thumb.

Cold terror struck into his heart. _Oh no. Klunk II._


End file.
